by Frank Zafiro
“Adam-122, go ahead,” Battaglia said, smirking at Sully.
“Feckin’ guinea,” Sully said.
Battaglia shot him the bird.
“Adam-122, respond to 1409 West Grace. The fire department is on scene with a structure fire, requesting traffic control.”
“Wonderful,” Battaglia groused before raising the microphone to his lips. “Copy.”
Sully slowed, checked front and rear, and swung a U-turn.
“Just what we need tonight,” Battaglia complained, replacing the mike on its holder. “Perimeter duty while the fire mopes save another foundation.”
“And no time for Guillermo’s,” Sully added.
“Don’t rub it in.”
“I can swing through the Taco Shack on the way, if you want.”
“Shut up.”
“Really. It’s right on the way.”
“Just drive, bogtrotter.”
Sully smiled and cruised up Monroe. He hung a left on Northwest Boulevard. Battaglia rolled his window down and lifted his nose in the air. “It must be a good one. I can smell the smoke already.”
As he spoke, the unmistakable odor of a burning structure wafted in. “I’ll bet the hose jockeys are beside themselves,” Sully said. “A real working fire.”
The two remained silent until Sully guided the car onto Grace Street. Mid-block, a house was fully engulfed in orange flame. Firemen blasted the fire from two different directions, but it didn’t seem to have any effect.
“Damn,” Battaglia mumbled, staring at the burning home.
“No kidding,” Sully said. He took a deep breath and said, “I’ll drop you here. Why don’t you grab some of the cones and block off the street. I’ll take the car around to the other end of the block and park it there. That ought to keep things under control, traffic-wise.”
Battaglia nodded absently, then got out of the car. Sully popped the trunk and waited while his partner retrieved a small stack of orange traffic cones. Once Batts slammed the hood, he pulled away, drove his car around the block, and parked at the opposite end of Grace Street. He sat in the car for a few minutes, watching the fire from there. Firemen scrambled about the scene, though he didn’t entirely understand what they were up to. He figured it was the same with them watching police work.
Leaving his overhead rotators on, he got out of the car and wandered closer to the fire. Near one of the pumper trucks he encountered Battaglia staring down at the grass. Sully opened his mouth to tease his partner about abandoning his post. Then he followed Battaglia’s gaze and stopped short.
Lying on the grass, bathed in the flashing blue, red, and white light, were three still figures. Sully stared at them dumbly as his mind digested the scene. The largest of the figures was clearly an adult. Given the petite bone structure, Sully guessed her to be female. The two figures beside her were much smaller, clearly children. The tiniest one wore a diaper. Dark streaks covered all three bodies. The woman’s mouth hung open in a slack, silent cry.
Sully felt a stab in his chest. He took a deep, unsteady breath and glanced over at Battaglia. The dark-haired man stood stock-still, his gaze locked on the three bodies. “The children,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “They look almost like little dolls, don’t they?”
Sully’s mind flashed to Battaglia’s children: his daughter, Maggie, and baby son, Anthony Junior, were very close in age to the two on the grass. Sully reached out and clasped Batts on the shoulder, giving him a firm squeeze.
Without meeting Sully’s eyes, Battaglia reached up with his own hand and clasped Sully’s. His eyes glistened in the darkness as the flashing emergency lights splashed across his face. “Life’s so goddamn short to begin with,” he said, “and theirs just barely got started.”
There was nothing for Sully to say.
The two officers stood watch over the three still forms long after the flames burned themselves out, long after Sergeant Shen arrived, his normally impassive face shaded in sadness, and even after Lieutenant Saylor came on scene, his mouth a tight line. They stood by until the fire department’s arson investigator arrived and took control of the scene. Even then, the pair strode back to the patrol car reluctantly, as if somehow they were abandoning the tiny dolls on the lawn.
THREE
Monday, July 14th
0907 hours
Renee straightened her skirt for the third time in the last minute, then adjusted her short stack of paperwork so that the corners lined up exactly. She glanced up at the clock on the wall, which told her the same thing it had the last time she looked. As usual, the new chief of police was running late.
She took a deep, tai chi cleansing breath and let it out. She hated that presentations like this made her so nervous. She was confident in her information, her analysis, and her conclusions. So why did making a formal presentation get her so worked up?
The chief’s secretary, Charlotte, appeared in the doorway to mahogany row. A pleasant, dark-haired woman with bright eyes, Charlotte flashed a smile at Renee. “The chief is ready for you now,” she said.
Renee stood, tucking her small stack of papers under her arm. “Thanks.”
Charlotte nodded and motioned her forward. “I love your skirt,” she said as Renee walked past. “Is it new?”
Renee shook her head. “God, no.” She couldn’t remember the last time she bought something new. “I only wear it when I need to feel confident. And I’m not feeling very confident right now.” She smoothed the fabric, more to dry her clammy palms than to erase any wrinkles. “I’ve heard the new chief is a yeller,” she added in a whisper.
Charlotte chuckled and took Renee’s arm. “Well, his career in the army probably made him a bit rougher around the edges than we’re used to. But he’s fair. Eventually.”
“Eventually?”
Charlotte smiled. “Just give him what he needs to know. And remember that he’s used to people calling him ‘sir.’” At the closed door to the chief’s office, she paused and gave Renee another smile. “You’ll do fine,” she whispered.
Before Renee could thank her, Charlotte rapped twice on the door, paused a moment, and turned the knob. Then she stepped aside so that Renee could enter.
Renee walked into the office for the first time since the new occupant had moved in. She’d become quite comfortable with the former chief, a pleasant, contemplative man who’d always given her a ready ear. He’d kept his office decorated with a variety of personal and professional items, all of which had served to give the room a sense of who he was.
The stark emptiness of the office now surprised her. Aside from a couple of framed certificates on the wall behind him and a photograph of a young child on his desk, there were no other decorations to speak of. A few stock items, such as the US and Washington State flags and the department seal, kept the walls from being entirely bare.
The new chief sat behind his large mahogany desk, the only remnant of the office’s former tenant. His features were swarthy, reminding Renee once again of the first thought she’d had when she saw his photograph during the selection process. She’d grown up a Tolkien fan, reading The Lord of the Rings at least once a year from the time she was twelve until… well, she still read the trilogy every few years.
The new chief’s appearance was, unquestionably, an orc.
For a moment Renee didn’t know whether that revelation should make her laugh or frighten her. After all, if he was as mean as he looked—
“Are you my crime analyst?” the chief asked, his voice not quite as gruff as she had expected, but not exactly silky, either.
“One of them,” she answered. She crossed to his desk and held out her hand. “I’m Renee. Right now, I’m assigned to emerging trends.”
“Emerging trends?” the chief repeated, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes, sir,” Renee answered. “I collect data citywide and collate it, looking for—”
“Emerging trends,” the chief finished for her. “I get it.” He pointed to the other men i
n the room. “I’m sure you know Captain Reott, commander of the Patrol Division?”
“Of course,” Renee answered, giving Reott a nod.
“And Lieutenant Crawford, who is the unit commander for—”
“Major Crimes,” Renee finished.
The chief’s eyes narrowed slightly in irritation. Renee pretended not to notice. “Yes,” he said. “I’ve invited them to be part of this briefing so that you don’t have to give it more than once.”
“Thank you, sir,” Renee said. She handed the chief a small packet of papers, then gave one to Crawford and Reott. “This is my report, in case you need to refer to it again at a later date.”
The chief scanned the sheet before him. He gestured to the empty chair in front of his desk. “Please, sit.”
Renee lowered herself into the chair, sitting stiffly upright. She waited while the three men read. After several moments, the chief looked up at her, his expression tinged with impatience. “You had a presentation of some sort?”
Renee cleared her throat. “Of course. Well, I know you’re busy, so I’ll cut to the heart of the matter. I believe we have some significant organized crime activity here in River City.”
“Significant?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And is that an emerging trend?”
“No,” Renee said, wondering if he was being sarcastic. “We’ve had an influx of black gangs since the late 1980s. Those gangs tended to fuel their income by selling crack, which has never really developed a substantial foothold here as it did in Los Angeles. They seem to sell enough to keep themselves in business, but that and some prostitution seem to be their only real criminal enterprises.
“Beyond that, we have some organized methamphetamine sellers, based mostly in the motorcycle gangs. Locally, the Brotherhood of the Southern Cross runs the show, though it has proven nearly impossible to break into that inner circle. They deal mostly in large quantities, selling to smaller independents who break up the bricks and distribute it further.”
“Thanks for the history lesson,” the chief said crisply, “but the detective sergeant in Narcotics already gave me this information. I was told you had something new to add?”
“I do,” Renee said, keeping her tone even. “It involves the Russians.”
A sarcastic smile spread over the chief’s face. “I’m pretty sure the Cold War is over,” he said. “In fact, I’m pretty sure we won.” He gave Renee an appraising look. “Are you sure you’re a crime analyst and not a CIA analyst?”
Are you sure you’re a police chief and not a donkey?
“Yes, sir,” Renee answered. “This is a serious crime problem.”
The chief paused a moment. Then he nodded and motioned for her to continue.
“Since the fall of the Soviet Union in December of 1991, there has been a steady flow of immigrants from those republics,” Renee began. “Russia and the Ukraine have been the primary source of new immigrants into River City. Most of them immigrated to the United States via Seattle and then found their way over here. Once there was a small community of Russians established, it seemed to attract more immigrants every year.”
“How many Russians live in River City now?”
“Well, the last official census was in 1990, so those numbers are way off. But based on other databases, I’d estimate between twelve and fifteen thousand.”
The chief’s eyebrows shot up. “Out of two hundred thousand? That’s a significant minority.”
Renee nodded. “Yes, sir, I know. That’s my point.”
“Is there someplace they all live?” the chief asked.
“Sir?”
“Is there someplace here in River City like Russia Town or Little Moscow or something?”
Renee scowled slightly. “No, not exactly. There are a number of neighborhoods with a significant Russian population, but—”
“I figured as much,” the chief grumbled. “They all huddle together.”
Renee shrugged. “It’s the same way when every new ethnic group immigrates in large numbers. That’s simply our history. The Irish did it in the 1850s, the Italians in the early twentieth century, Southeast Asians in the 1970s. The Russians are no different.”
“The hell they’re not,” the chief said, his voice rising. “Listen, I spent twenty years in Uncle Sam’s Green Machine from 1971 to 1991. I retired once it was clear Communism was beaten. And you can thank Ronald Reagan for that accomplishment, by the way.”
Renee was unsure where he was going with this. She’d voted for Reagan, but didn’t see how that—
“I trained to fight those Commie bastards every day for twenty years,” the chief said, “so don’t try to tell me that they’re no different.”
“Well, sir,” Renee said, “you may be right. But I believe they are very different in one respect.”
“And what’s that?”
“They’re organized. And because the bulk of the Russians here are still first generation, they enjoy considerable capitulation amongst community members.”
The chief eyed her doubtfully. “Organized, you say?”
Renee nodded. “I believe that a splinter group of Russian organized crime is operating here in River City.”
The chief stared at her for a few moments. Then a smile spread over his face. “The Russian Mafia? You’re kidding.”
“No,” Renee said, shaking her head. “Though I wouldn’t say Mafia, necessarily. But yes, organized crime from Russia. If you analyze the data—”
“Who are these gangsters?”
Renee pressed her lips together. “I’m not sure,” she admitted. “It’s hard to pin down, because all of them are new to the country. Interpol is slow to process requests, and as I mentioned, the people in the community won’t supply information to the police.”
“So how do you know they exist?”
“It’s a conclusion I’ve drawn,” Renee explained, “based on all the data.”
“What is some of that data?”
“There’s been a spike in the number of auto thefts over the past year. The percentage of those vehicles that are never recovered has more than tripled. That indicates someone is either shipping them for resale elsewhere or running a chop shop and parting them out.”
The chief shrugged, unimpressed. “Auto theft doesn’t equal Russians,” he said.
“No,” Renee conceded, “but it is one of their favorite criminal enterprises. Besides that, we’ve had a 550% increase in drug delivery arrests involving males with a Russian surname since 1996. And two of the five massage parlors in the city have changed their names from an Asian theme to an Eastern European theme. The employee lists contains almost exclusively Russian surnames.”
The chief shrugged again. “So the Russkies are tearing off a small piece for themselves. Why should I care? Beyond asking the patrol captain to stomp on them a little bit, that is.”
“Because they are highly organized,” Renee said, forcing herself to keep an even tone of voice. “This exactly mirrors their operations back in Russia. Their criminal organization over there was incredibly diversified and very secretive. They still believe in the concept of Omertà, the code of silence.”
The chief shook his head. “I still don’t see—”
“Sir, they clearly have a foothold now,” Renee interjected, speaking rapidly. “But because they aren’t focused on just one revenue source, they can grow quickly. And there’s something else. Probably the most important thing, actually.”
The chief scowled. “Well, if it was the most important thing, you should have started with it. What is it?”
“They’re ruthless,” Renee said, her voice flat.
The chief stared at her again, then looked up at Reott and Crawford. “Is she for real?” he asked them, motioning toward Renee. When neither man answered, he turned his attention back to her. “Ruthless? Like all gangsters aren’t?”
“They’re not like other gangsters, sir. They operate in a different way. They have a completel
y different frame of mind.”
“They’re criminals,” the chief said.
“They’re ruthless,” Renee repeated. “They’ve been known to assassinate entire families in horrible ways in order to make their point, both to their enemies and the people in the community. And, for this generation at least, the community will listen to them and understand.”
“So I’ve got fifteen thousand ruthless Reds to worry about?” the chief asked. “Is that what you’re telling me?”
“No. The vast majority of the Russian immigrants here are hardworking, law-abiding people.”
“Then how many are criminals?”
Renee shrugged. “I don’t know. A few hundred, at most. And I would speculate that perhaps thirty or so are directly involved in organized crime.”
“But those thirty are ruthless, according to you.”
“Yes,” Renee said, “they are. And they have tentacles that reach deep into that community of fifteen thousand.”
The chief sighed. “All right. Thank you for the briefing… Renee, was it?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you. I still don’t see why I should be so worried, but thank you.”
Renee made no move to leave her seat. “You should be worried, sir, because this is a group of men that were able to function under the oppressive Soviet government. Not only function, but thrive. Now, here in America, they are unfettered by that iron grip. The freedom of our country gives them virtually unbridled opportunity. Our laws don’t matter to them. Our jails don’t frighten them. And our police don’t worry them one little bit.”
The chief sat in his seat for a long moment, staring at Renee. She held his gaze, her chest afire. Finally the chief said, “Don’t think you can come in here and educate me about the world. I spent twenty years preparing to go to war with these people. Are they tough? Yes. But they were also disorganized and inefficient, while quite capable of deceiving themselves of that very fact. Their soldiers were sloppy and lazy and served under duress, not willingly. That is the type of warrior that country produced. I don’t believe that they’d produce a criminal who was very much different. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have another appointment in ten minutes.”
